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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28309779">to the counsel of fools a wooden bell</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacrimalis/pseuds/lacrimalis'>lacrimalis</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hilda (Cartoon)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Banter, Character Study, Domesticity, Fae Magic, I Am Not Joking And If You Click On This Neither Are You, Light-Hearted, M/M, Nature Magic, Pre-Slash, Slow Burn, Wood Man Fucks I Make The Rules</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 15:29:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,998</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28309779</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacrimalis/pseuds/lacrimalis</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Wood Man isn't a nature spirit.</p><p>Or, he isn't <em>just</em> a nature spirit. Hasn't been for a while now. Being trapped in a magical house that fulfills your every desire clarifies a few things for Wood Man—about himself, that is. And about the type of spirit he's becoming.</p><p>Apparently, it's the type of spirit that cares about interior design.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bell Keeper/Wood Man</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>80</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. rain chain</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/MossPiglet/gifts">MossPiglet</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Wood Man never used to mind the rain.</p><p>Used to be he had about as much cause to complain of a light drizzle as a tree.</p><p>Which is to say, less than no cause at all.</p><p>Water is one of the few forms of nourishment he needs, and rain’s an easy way to get it. He ought to appreciate it more, he thinks, seeing as most other things he wants don’t have the decency to fall out of the sky for free.</p><p>He hasn’t gone city like Hilda. He’s still perfectly happy to lay down in a dead sleep under the stars, with nothing but the desiccated forest floor for a bed. He doesn’t need a mattress or a pillow, or a quilt or comforter to keep him warm. Even when he imposes on the hospitality of others, he prefers the floor.</p><p>He’s not a creature that requires many creature <em> comforts, </em> is all.</p><p>But somewhere along the way Wood Man’s woodsy, fey tranquility had transformed into a sort of homey, languorous mellow. It wasn’t a big outward change, but a subtle inner one, wherein he traded one love of quiet nonsense for another: his babbling brooks for bubbling kettles; his shuffling leaves for shifting pages.</p><p>He got to like sitting by a fire. Curling up with a book of long-forgotten histories and supernatural bylaws. The comfortable silence of a peopled home, over the tenuous silence of the wilderness in the dead of night.</p><p>It’s not that he doesn’t like sitting on hollow logs or grassy hills or strange stone formations any more. He just <em> also </em> likes cozying up to the fireplace and kicking back on a soft rug—or maybe a nice hardwood floor, if the mood strikes him. And when Wood Man considers where he’d most like to enjoy his daily repose while it’s <em> raining— </em>well.</p><p>It’s inside, no question.</p><p>So it’s damn unlucky that the sky kicks off a crashing cascade of the stuff just as Wood Man has cleared the Trolberg city gates.</p><p>He looks up at the weeping sky and sighs.</p><p>His home is quite a ways from Trolberg, which hasn't yet been an issue on his prior visits to see Hilda and sightsee the town, owing to his aforementioned indifference to roughing it in the woods. He could take a nap any-old-where if he didn't feel like making the whole trip in one go.</p><p>But not in the rain, he thinks.</p><p>Also, cloud cover as dark and heavy as what they've got now is just the sort that can block enough sunlight to wake the local troll population.</p><p>The raindrops pitter patter on his hollow head and solid body. He sounds like a homemade wind chime.</p><p>Wood Man stands in the road until he’s properly lamented his circumstances, then steps into the squelching grass toward the nearest porch light.</p><p>The porch light glows above a door set into the base of one of Trolberg’s ubiquitous bell towers—and beside it, happily, is a narrow one-story cottage with a small attic or loft, squatting against the ramparts of Trolberg's defenses.</p><p>Wood Man climbs the porch steps to the hollow percussion of rain falling in his eyes and pushes open the door.</p><p>–</p><p>The wood stove is practically calling his name.</p><p>"Nice," Wood Man says, rubbing his palms together in anticipation. A thorough inspection of the wood pile almost impresses him: dry, hardwood logs—ash, in fact. Low resin content. Good for building a steady, long-lasting fire. <em>"Very </em> nice," he amends with warm, woodsmoke satisfaction.</p><p>He lights a fire and sits in front of the stove, basking in the warmth of the hearth.</p><p>But, of course, there is something missing.</p><p>Just from where he's sitting, Wood Man can see several dozen books he'd be pleased to get his hands on for a bit of light reading. Unfortunately, most of them are perched on several floating shelves by the entryway. Wood Man could probably reach them if he climbed onto the storage chest sitting below the shelves, but that seems like an awful lot of effort to go to when there are three alternatives shoved into the space between the microwave and the portable electric stove:</p><p>An issue of <em> Trolberg Digest </em> several weeks out of date, a nature book espousing the virtues of <em> Exploring the World of Woffs, </em> and what appears to be a paranormal romance and/or high seas adventure novel titled <em> Dawn of the Draugen. </em></p><p>The last of these is, perhaps, entirely too revealing of his unwitting host's taste in literature. Wood Man passes over the boring <em> Digest </em> issue and settles on the slightly more middling and infinitely safer decision of <em> Exploring the World of Woffs. </em></p><p>There. A warm fire and a nature book. What more could he ask for?</p><p>A cup of tea, maybe. But Wood Man's favorite brew is soily water and twigs, and while there's plenty of that outside, the rain has really started to pick up and it kind of puts him off the idea of ever going outside again. He even had to close the door himself—unusual for him, he knows, but since his unwitting host wasn't around to do it, Wood Man supposed he had to take this thankless task into his own hands.</p><p>Anyway. He's not keen on braving the downpour for mud now that he’s all warm and cozy.</p><p>Maybe tonight he'll settle for human fare. It doesn't need to have any nutritive value, he supposes. It just has to be warm.</p><p>–</p><p>Wood Man's gracious host makes an appearance at 6:05pm exactly.</p><p>Punctual. A shift worker, maybe.</p><p>"Blasted rain," the man curses softly, knocking his boots on the doormat as he hurries to shut the door. The outside air whispers in for a moment regardless, making the leaf atop Wood Man’s head cringe inward to guard it from the chill. A shiver travels down his trunk.</p><p>Wood Man hums noncommittally, taking a sip of his tea and turning a page. "You can say that again.”</p><p>The shuffling sounds of his host doffing his outerwear comes to a sudden halt.</p><p>“... And just how did you get in here?”</p><p>Wood Man looks up.</p><p>The man is halfway out of his yellow overcoat, staring hard at Wood Man sitting in front of his wood stove. “Well, I didn’t come down the chimney,” Wood Man says wryly. Honestly, what a silly question. How else would he have gotten in but the door?</p><p>“The door was locked,” the man says, though his dark eyebrows furrow like he’s not as sure of that now as he was a minute ago.</p><p>Wood Man turns back to look at an illustration of hibernating woffs with a dismissive hum. “Was it?” he asks conversationally.</p><p>The man stands uncertainly in his own entryway, making no reply except for the speechless working of his cat-caught tongue. The lull goes on long enough that Wood Man finishes the page he’s on and turns to the next, the <em> shiff </em>of paper sighing over the wood stove’s crackling grumble.</p><p>Of all the questions Wood Man can hear rattling around in the man’s head, the one he chooses to voice is a bewildered demand of, “Are you wearing my scarf?”</p><p>Wood Man lifts his arms, over which is looped the peach-and-orange striped scarf he liberated from the coat hook. He regards the article as if the fact that he is wearing it is brand new information. “That depends,” says Wood Man. “Is this your scarf?”</p><p>Wood Man watches the man’s face, where his confusion fights a losing battle with his simmering ire. He glares at Wood Man with something like resigned enmity as he wrestles his overcoat from his person and deposits it on a coat hook—the very same from which the orange scarf had hung, earlier. “Yes,” the man says flatly.</p><p>Wood Man lowers his arms to retrieve his mug of tea. “Huh,” says Wood Man. Sips his tea. “Then I guess I am.”</p><p>The man scrubs a hand down his face, over his dark mustache and scruffy, unshaven jaw. He walks further into the house, ignoring his uninvited guest in pursuit of some evidently more imperative purpose.</p><p>But.</p><p>“You’re tracking mud,” Wood Man informs him.</p><p>The man stops dead in his tracks, turning his gaze back to Wood Man with a look of absolute stupefaction. But he does look down at his boots, lifting one leg to inspect the filthy sole. He casts one last baffled look at Wood Man before returning slowly to the storage chest by the door, where he sits and removes his boots. His fingers fumble with the muddy laces, because he keeps glancing up at Wood Man with a guarded sort of fascination.</p><p>Wood Man stops paying attention, going back to his book and the dregs of his tea as the man goes about his business for the next several minutes.</p><p>Wood Man's host ends up in the kitchenette—and suddenly <em> music </em> joins the din of the fire and his host’s quiet, domestic movements. A pleasant thrill passes through the grain of Wood Man’s wych-elm sapwood. “Oh,” he says, and it comes out like a sigh. “What’s that?”</p><p>His host doesn’t answer, and Wood Man turns his head 180 degrees. The man’s eyes widen, and he tenses where he leans against the kitchenette sink. “Uh. Radio,” he answers, and he tilts his head minutely—like he doesn't want to take his eyes off Wood Man completely—toward the tinnily singing device on the countertop.</p><p>Wood Man hums contentedly, turning his head slowly back around. The gaps in the wood stove’s grate shift and glow with the healthy heartbeat of the fire. He looks back down at his book. “It’s nice.”</p><p>The man doesn’t respond to that, but Wood Man doesn’t necessarily expect him to. Having expectations just seems like a whole lot of bother. You’re either disappointed or vindicated, and for what? He’d rather live in the moment. It <em>is</em> the thing Wood Man is constantly curating to be as comfortable as possible. Be a waste to put in all that effort and then <em> not </em> live in it.</p><p>Like a sad, empty house, Wood Man reflects.</p><p>The man clears his throat, and Wood Man’s attention is captured again, though he doesn’t look up. “Did you… make tea?” the man asks, mystified.</p><p>“... Calling it ‘tea’ might be giving me too much credit,” says Wood Man. “I wouldn’t recommend it for human consumption. But could you top me off before you dump it?” He lifts his mug and waves it to get the man’s attention, without ever shifting his gaze from the book. It’s actually pretty interesting stuff—and now that he’s deep in the proverbial weeds of its contents, he sees there are quite a few handwritten notes in the margins.</p><p>Seems like his host is a bit of a naturalist.</p><p>The mug is lifted so gently from his hand that Wood Man barely notices it go.</p><p>The quiet noise of his host's gainful activity floats through the air, carried aloft by the droning radio and the crackling fire. Interspersed with the sound of pages turning, overlaid with a blanket of hearth-warmth and the smells of woodsmoke and mud and clean linens and over-steeped tea… The atmosphere nourishes Wood Man as well as water and sunlight. It sinks into his sap, carrying that vital spiritual sustenance to every part of him.</p><p>Wood Man nestles into the orange scarf with a satisfied sigh.</p><p>A choking sound distracts Wood Man from his bask, and he looks up to see his host grimacing and wrinkling his nose at the pair of mugs in his hands.</p><p>"You over-steeped it," the man grits out, working his jaw like the bitterness is stuck to his teeth. The man’s suffering palate roughens his voice, drawing his accent out further. What is that, Scottish? Northern Irish, maybe? Wood Man can’t quite place it.</p><p>"... I also recommended you not drink it," Wood Man feels the need to remind him.</p><p>The man's face goes through something like the five stages of grief over his mug of dubious tea. And then he drinks it again. "It's… fine," he eventually decides. The strange thing is that he doesn't even seem to be lying about it. It's just that his sense of taste seems to only be slightly more sophisticated than Wood Man's—a creature that eats mud on a regular basis. </p><p>Wood Man is transfixed.</p><p>The man leans down to proffer the other mug to his uninvited guest, and Wood Man accepts it, peering into its ink black contents. It's only steeped more since he brewed it. An oily sheen floats on its surface. He takes a sip, and it's awful—but tea leaves are just plant matter, after a fashion, and Wood Man tells himself this can nourish him, too.</p><p>If he convinces himself well enough to believe it, it might actually come true.</p><p>His host pulls out one of the mismatched chairs at the dining table, the scrape of its legs muffled by the round, sunshine yellow rug beneath it. He slumps into it, sipping his tea in quiet contemplation. Wood Man takes advantage of the man's pensive state and gets a full three pages finished. He finds a doodle of a woff pup hatching from an egg in the blank space at the end of a chapter, and he chuckles quietly.</p><p>"Do you prefer the floor, then? Because I’m not in danger of running out of chairs, if you’d prefer to sit at the table."</p><p>Wood Man looks up. The man is peering at him speculatively as he nurses his wretched beverage.</p><p>"I don't know how you can drink that," Wood Man admits. He also closes the book and tucks it under his arm, rising to his feet with his mug in his opposite hand.</p><p><em> "You're </em>drinking it," the man points out. He watches Wood Man pile his diversions onto the dining table before clambering into one of the mismatched dining chairs himself. The chairs are angled more toward the wood stove than the table, which is fortunate—if they were sitting around the table like civilized folk, Wood Man’s head would barely clear the surface to make eye contact.</p><p>Wood Man considers pulling the book back open and into his lap, now that he’s resettled. But for some reason he doesn’t feel like doing that.</p><p>He turns his head toward his host. "I also drink mud," Wood Man tells him.</p><p>The man looks down at his mug with fresh concern. The drink is already half gone, so it's not like that concern does him much good now. Apparently the man comes to the same conclusion, because he drinks again and does an admirable job concealing his disgust. He looks a little disappointed in himself, though.</p><p>The oil lamp at the center of the circular dining table is lit now where it wasn't before. Wood Man finds this an adequate substitute for the dancing inferno of the wood stove—a lonesome little glow performing solo.</p><p>The man sets his awful tea down on the table. "So. What are you?" he asks. He's got wariness in the tense line of his shoulders—but not, interestingly, much at all in the way of hostility.</p><p>Wood Man strokes his chin, and his host glances down at the gap between his head and shoulders, looking faintly unnerved about it. “Is that usually how you break the ice with strangers? ‘What are you’?”</p><p>Abashedness joins the bewilderment on his host’s face. “No, I suppose not… Right, then,” he says, and he straightens in his chair and clears his throat as if restarting a scene, from the top. “I’m the bell keeper. And who might you be?”</p><p>“I’m the Wood Man,” says Wood Man.</p><p>The bell keeper snorts, his dark mustache twitching at the corner of his smile. “Aye, I can see that well enough.”</p><p>“I didn’t bring any wood this time,” Wood Man admits. The bell keeper’s eyes flick up and down Wood Man’s body, as if suddenly given cause to wonder whether Wood Man is not, in fact, made of wood. Then he follows the angle of Wood Man’s head with his eyes—to the wood pile by the wood stove.</p><p>“Got plenty,” says the bell keeper, a bit uncertainly.</p><p>“I’ll bring some next time,” says Wood Man, as if the bell keeper had not spoken.</p><p>The bell keeper peers at Wood Man. His expression of consternation seems to smooth out at this proclamation—like he was waiting for some kind of catch. He even favors Wood Man with a bewildered smile. “... Huh. Fair enough, I suppose.”</p><p>A sip of tea slurry extinguishes his smile just as quickly as it comes.</p><p>“Don’t hurt yourself,” Wood Man says lightly, with no small amount of his own bewilderment. He almost feels bad for making the stuff, with how inexplicably determined the bell keeper seems to be to quaff it.</p><p>“Eh, I’m not picky,” the bell keeper insists. “You can’t make tea worth a damn though, Wood Man.”</p><p>Wood Man lifts his mug. “I’ll drink to that.”</p><p>The bell keeper’s shoulders jerk forward with a laugh that takes him by surprise. He swipes a hand over his smile and composes himself, though the crow’s feet by his eyes still wiggle their toes. His shoulders slacken with the ease of some private decision made, and he picks up his mug to tap it against Wood Man’s.</p><p>“Cheers,” says the bell keeper, and he swallows the rest of his tea in a single gulp.</p><p>Wood Man is tempted to leave the man hanging. Oh, that would be too funny. But he did <em> say </em> he would drink to it, and there’s.</p><p>Something.</p><p>The spirit of the moment, maybe. The tenuously cultivated warmth of the bell keeper’s hearth.</p><p>Ceding to the gentle instinct, Wood Man quaffs the last of his tea in solidarity with the bell keeper. It’s just as disgusting now as it’s been all evening. But when they set their mugs on the table in unanticipated unison, it feels significant somehow. Not like a deal being struck—Wood Man has gambled in enough hovels, dives, grottos, and back alleys to know the uncertain tension of <em> that </em>particular feeling—but more like a bet being placed. Eager, anticipatory. Almost playful.</p><p>“I think I’d better go back to drinking mud,” Wood Man decides.</p><p>The bell keeper shakes his head and huffs out a laugh, standing with their mugs and bringing them to the sink. “If I’m around next time, I’ll make the tea myself.”</p><p>That’s a surprise. “I’d be much obliged, bell keeper,” Wood Man drawls.</p><p>Wood Man is used to behaving as if his welcome is presumed, though he’s well aware humans don’t tend to see it that way—most humans, anyway. The bell keeper’s back is to the dining table as he washes their mugs in the sink, and Wood Man takes advantage of the inattention to observe his peculiar host at his leisure. The slope of the bell keeper’s shoulders is relaxed and open. There’s no sign of the tension or mistrust he displayed earlier. With how deeply at ease the man acts, Wood Man could almost believe he comes here every evening, for tea and quiet music and a good book—and the warmth of a roaring hearth.</p><p>Maybe if he believes it hard enough, it’ll come true.</p><p>Wood Man did not account for the small window above the sink, when he decided he could observe the bell keeper while remaining unobserved himself. And he realizes, in the reflection of the glass, that the bell keeper is watching him right back, with equal curiosity and interest.</p><p>It is… not something Wood Man knows well enough to put into words.</p><p>Explanations aren’t his strong suit.</p><p>He pulls <em> Exploring the World of Woffs </em> into his lap and turns his attention there instead.</p><p>The bell keeper is a peculiar fellow, Wood Man thinks. Peculiar for his tacit acceptance of Wood Man’s intrusion, and the casual equanimity with which he conducts himself in the presence of a home-invading stranger. But this is not a thought Wood Man can voice without belying his confidence and self-assurance of his own welcome. Which is just as ingrained in him as—well, as his wood grain.</p><p>The bell keeper makes his way to the portable electric stove for the kettle. His eyes land briefly on the literature Wood Man had foregone earlier: <em> Dawn of the Draugen </em> and <em> Trolberg Digest. </em> Glances at the book in Wood Man’s lap.</p><p>It’s then that Wood Man knows exactly what he wants to say.</p><p>“You have quite an… eclectic collection of literature,” he tells the bell keeper, his tone light and idle.</p><p>The bell keeper blinks and glances back down at the literature on the countertop. Realization comes over him like a bucket of water. He clears his throat, and his cheeks pinken under his gray beard, and he feigns casualness when he retrieves <em> Dawn of the Draugen </em>from the countertop; but his grip is far too tight for it to be anything but furtive, and he dithers indecisively for a moment before placing it atop the fridge.</p><p>There are not any other books atop the fridge.</p><p>Wood Man turns to the next page, and doesn’t really mind that he hasn’t absorbed anything from the previous one.</p><p>Yes, the bell keeper is a peculiar host.</p><p>Wood Man can’t say as he minds all that much.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>biggest ups in the whole wide world to mosspiglet for pretty much all the spirit lore happening here</p><p>merry yule, start fires, slap a yule lad!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. the dinner bell</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Wood Man doesn't count the days between his first and second meeting with the bell keeper. It's hardly the first house he's intruded upon apart from Hilda's, and he has plenty of other things going on that demand his attention besides. Sights to see. Books to collect. Records to listen to. Folks to swindle.</p><p>Magical artifacts to hunt down and unlawfully acquire.</p><p>Look—as far as Wood Man is concerned, he's a force of nature. If the former owners of his latest acquisitions take issue with having lost them, then they ought to file a claim with their insurance company. People don't expect restitution from the sea when they drop their stuff in it, or shake their fists at clouds for destroying their stuff in a hurricane. So there’s hardly any point bothering <em> him </em> about it, is there?</p><p>Anyhow.</p><p>On Wood Man's previous visit, he'd been forced to take refuge at the bell keeper's home because of the rain, so he hadn't exactly come prepared with a housewarming gift.</p><p>This time he arrives with his armful of firewood at 6:05pm exactly.</p><p>It's not because he's trying to get there when the bell keeper does. Sometimes the rain holds off until the moment you step over the threshold of your home. Sometimes you ask for a snow day and get one. Does that mean the weather is taking your convenience into consideration?</p><p>No.</p><p>And neither is Wood Man.</p><p>But he arrives at 6:05pm all the same, and lo and behold there's the bell keeper unlocking the front door.</p><p>The noisome rustle of grass heralds Wood Man's arrival, and the bell keeper looks up and brightens at his approach. "Evening, Wood Man," he says, and the impression of pleasant surprise in his tone is corroborated by the slight upward twitch of his mustache. "Fancy seeing you."</p><p>"Evening, Bell Keeper," Wood Man replies.</p><p>The bell keeper exhales sharply through his nose, an unvoiced laugh. He wastes no more time on pleasantries before pushing the door open and gesturing for Wood Man to go on inside.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>That's unusual.</p><p>Wood Man is accustomed to walking into houses as he pleases, unannounced and unexpected. He's never knocked on a door in his life, and he doesn't intend to start now. Likewise, he is certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that no one has ever invited him inside like this. It's an invitation he doesn't need. He was already going to go in—like the hoped-for breeze that's been flying toward you over hill and dale for a thousand miles, long before you ever thought to ask for it.</p><p>But it's unusual, and Wood Man stalls at the novelty of the experience.</p><p>The bell keeper's face flickers uncertainly at Wood Man's stillness and silence. Like he's wondering if he's broken some esoteric fey law about hospitality by making his invitation.</p><p>Honestly? Maybe he has. Wood Man isn't entirely sure, but the tingling shiver that travels from his twig to his toes suggests <em> something </em>is going on.</p><p>"Thank you," Wood Man says neutrally, as if his head hadn't just gone full of bird nest for several seconds. He climbs the porch steps and crosses the threshold, and the bell keeper follows and closes the door behind them.</p><p>There's no fire in the wood stove, but just being inside makes Wood Man feel a little warmer.</p><p>Very unusual indeed.</p><p>Wood Man makes his way over to the wood pile without preamble and deposits the three logs he brought along. The pale birch of the new additions contrasts nicely with the dark gray ash. Maybe it's presumptuous to introduce his idea of variety into such a tidy, uniform pile—but even if the bell keeper has a preference for the look or fragrance of ash, Wood Man finds most people don't often complain about the <em> type </em>of wood he brings. Not even the most vocal objectors to his presence do.</p><p>It's not like he ever brings softwood. He's not <em> unhinged.  </em></p><p>And the birch will burn quickly.</p><p>That feels important for some reason.</p><p>Wood Man returns to the storage chest by the door, where the bell keeper is sitting and unlacing his boots. At Wood Man’s approach, the bell keeper raises his head and his eyebrows in question.</p><p>"Can I borrow a book?" asks Wood Man. He wouldn't bother asking, except the bell keeper’s bookshelves are as tall as the man himself, so it’s not as if he can just take what he wants. He has to wonder why someone who lives alone has essentially child-proofed his house. Can’t figure a reason for it—unless he receives frequent visits from the vittra, Wood Man thinks with amusement.</p><p>… Oh. Maybe that <em> is </em> the case. Wood Man hadn’t given any thought to the other nature spirits the bell keeper might entertain in his home, but now that he <em> is </em>thinking about it, it makes sense. What with the man’s living on the edge of civilization, and reacting so neutrally to Wood Man’s appearance in the first place.</p><p>"I'll be needing my woffs book tonight," the bell keeper warns him.</p><p>Wood Man shrugs. "That's fine."</p><p>The bell keeper tucks his boots against the side of the storage chest, stands with a quiet groan, and turns around to inspect his collection, placing his hands on his hips and taking a deep breath—like he's preparing himself for the exercise of choosing something suitable. He rubs a hand over his mouth a few times, glancing periodically at Wood Man like he'll see something in the patterns of his bark or the bottomless pits of his eyes to better inform his decision.</p><p>The bell keeper makes a small, private sound of triumph as his finger lands upon the spine of his selection. He pulls the book free, and he turns to Wood Man and hands it over.</p><p>Wood Man accepts the book, and the title jumps out at him:</p><p>
  <em> Water, Wood, and Weather: A Guide to Spirits of the Natural World. </em>
</p><p>That certainly answers the question of the man’s experience with spirits. Wood Man lets out a quiet laugh, and the bell keeper smiles with satisfaction at his well-received recommendation, stepping around Wood Man to hang up his overcoat.</p><p>“I’m putting the kettle on,” the bell keeper announces. “Do you want a cup?”</p><p>“If you don’t mind,” Wood Man replies distractedly. He turns slowly, taking a moment to inspect the book in his hands a bit more thoroughly. The title isn't the only thing that stands out: it's clothbound in pale blue, the fabric softened with age, and where there clearly used to be an illustrated border—of vines, or air currents, or waves, maybe?—the ink has worn away almost completely, leaving just a few faint impressions.</p><p>One corner of the cover is frayed, revealing the board beneath. And the spine is cracked.</p><p>Wood Man tsks judgmentally. The bell keeper has moved to the kitchenette at some point during Wood Man’s inspection of his offering, so he doesn’t seem to hear the sound—particularly not since he just turned on the radio, inviting the quiet din of calm jazz into the cabin. His yellow overcoat hangs idly on the hook beside Wood Man, and Wood Man notices that the right arm has been crudely mended with a brown patch of fabric.</p><p>“You really ought to take better care of your things,” Wood Man chides. He flips carefully through the book, and sighs with relief. At least the contents don’t seem to be in as lamentable a state as the binding.</p><p>“If it offends you that badly, you don’t have to read it,” the bell keeper informs him crisply.</p><p>Wood Man looks over at the man where he leans against the countertop sink. His arms are crossed, but the expression on his face is a far cry from the glares he was handing out for free last time. Mostly he just looks matter-of-fact.</p><p>“I didn’t say that,” says Wood Man, looking back at the book. It’s a shame that it’s in such disrepair, but it’s not as if it will affect his reading experience. He makes his way over to the dining table and places the book on one of the mismatched chairs.</p><p>“All right then,” says the bell keeper, as if that settles the matter. “Feel like learning to make tea, Wood Man?”</p><p>Wood Man is extremely lazy, but any skill that helps him create a cozier environment for himself is worth learning. And homemaking isn’t exactly a self-taught discipline, in his experience—hence his trespassing hobby. Even with examples to work from, it hasn’t been easy to learn to cultivate a home. And Wood Man’s hosts aren’t usually as tolerant, nevermind as <em> indulgent, </em> as the bell keeper. The only thing anyone’s ever personally taught him, Wood Man reflects, is how to gamble.</p><p>So this is a pretty rare opportunity.</p><p>“Obviously,” Wood Man says, and he joins the bell keeper in the kitchenette.</p><p>The bell keeper smiles down at him, friendly and content, and shows him where the kettle and cups are kept.</p><p>— </p><p>"Now, the average tea drinker will insist that brewing tea in the same kettle you boil the water will ‘damage the kettle’," the bell keeper says, in the overdramatic warble of one who thinks very little indeed of the viewpoint in question. He flaps a hand dismissively. "But I just haven't the patience for all that fuss."</p><p>"I respect your methods," the Wood Man assures him. "My own lifestyle doesn't invite a lot of fussing, either."</p><p>The bell keeper smiles down at the kettle as he fills it with water and drops in the tea diffuser. "Why am I not surprised?" he says quietly, as if he’s only asking himself.</p><p>Which has never stopped Wood Man from interjecting his thoughts unsolicited before. "You must not be easily surprised,” Wood Man suggests dryly.</p><p>The bell keeper laughs at that. "Did I not look surprised the other day?” he asks Wood Man as he places the kettle on the electric stove. He strokes his chin and lifts his eyes in mock consideration. “I must have a better poker face than I thought!"</p><p>"Not as good as mine, I bet," Wood Man says smoothly.</p><p>The bell keeper gives him a flat look, which does very little to hide his reluctant smile. "Oh, I bet," he says, punctuating it with the deadpan <em> click </em> of the electric stove switching on.</p><p>"Would you like to make that a formal wager?"</p><p>The bell keeper snorts loudly and crosses his arms, leaning against the countertop. He gives Wood Man an arch look. "Not on your bloody life.”</p><p>Wood Man sighs and lifts his hands in defeat. "You sure know how to let a guy down easy."</p><p>Something must occur to the bell keeper then, because he blinks and peers at Wood Man curiously. “Now wait just a moment. Are you saying you play poker? Or did you mean that figuratively?”</p><p>“I play sometimes,” Wood Man concedes. He doesn’t say that he usually wins, because that would spoil the fun. But he looks around the bell keeper’s home with a new proprietary gleam in his gaze.</p><p>“Huh,” says the bell keeper. “I haven’t seen my deck of cards in ages. But if it turns up before your next visit, maybe we can go a few rounds.”</p><p>Wood Man scoffs. “Not if you’re not <em> betting </em>anything,” he objects. “Why don’t you live a little, Bell Keeper?”</p><p>The bell keeper rolls his eyes grandly. “Fine, you greedy bastard. You’ll have to come up with something to wager, though.” He lifts his arms as if to indicate everything in his home not nailed to the floor. “You’ve already seen everything I could possibly wager,” he says, correctly reading the speculative swivel of Wood Man’s head earlier.</p><p>“I’ll come up with something,” Wood Man promises.</p><p>“Hm. We’ll see,” says the bell keeper as he rolls his eyes again. But there’s no hiding his fond smile this time.</p><p>Wood Man leans against the cupboard below the sink, his body language conveying the smirk that his face can’t show. “I guess we will.”</p><p>—</p><p>Wood Man rests his weight on his elbows as he immerses himself in the contents of <em> Water, Wood, and Weather. </em> The bell keeper did eventually get around to lighting a fire, so the cabin is slowly filling with heat. One of Wood Man’s pine logs even sits atop the blaze, and if he looks, he can just see its bark curling like paper through the grate.</p><p>It is immensely gratifying.</p><p>Also, Wood Man is wearing the bell keeper’s scarf again. It’s soft, and it smells like cedar, and this evening the bell keeper hasn’t so much as remarked upon Wood Man taking the liberty, save for a silent raised eyebrow. So unless the man tells him off outright, he’s not going to <em> stop. </em> He likes it. It’s novel to wear clothes. Even a scarf three times as long as he is tall.</p><p>Even if he’s less ‘wearing’ the scarf and more ‘swimming in’ it.</p><p>The bell keeper has some kind of map spread across the dining table’s surface, muttering to himself and going back and forth between it and his heavily-annotated copy of <em> Exploring the World of Woffs. </em></p><p>The fire snaps and sighs, tossing warm shapes across the floor with its brightly-burning light; the radio host’s tinny voice names the previous song and introduces the next; the tea Wood Man observed the bell keeper making is much more tolerable than Wood Man’s own disastrous attempt—bitter, but not painfully astringent. And it‘s smooth, rather than cloying and cottony.</p><p>The rumble of the bell keeper’s absent muttering and the scratch of his pen occasionally captures Wood Man’s attention, before he tunes the sounds out again when he begins a new paragraph.</p><p>It’s an interesting read.</p><p>
  <em> Many academics understand spirits to exist in identifiable groups and subgroups: vittra being earth spirits, huldra being wood spirits, and nikkra being water spirits. </em>
</p><p>Well, Wood Man could have told them that for free.</p><p><em> But pigeonholing spirits within rigid taxonomy is a fool’s endeavor, because spirits are just as changeable and diverse as humans, </em> the book claims, which is news to Wood Man. <em> Moreso, perhaps—because the changes a spirit will undergo in their lifetime can alter their fundamental nature: their physical form, their dietary needs, or their preferred environment, for example. </em></p><p>Hm.</p><p>That’s probably not him, right?</p><p>The wood stove clatters suddenly as a piece of wood snaps against its inside wall, and Wood Man nearly startles.</p><p>Hm.</p><p>Right.</p><p>Decisively, Wood Man shuts the book, rolls over, and lays his head down on it like a pillow, folding his hands over his midsection. Maybe the knowledge will seep into his brain via osmosis, like roots absorbing water—so he doesn’t have to learn its contents by reading any more dismaying and alarming sentences like that one. In the meantime he stares at the ceiling, willing the warmth and quiet of the bell keeper’s cabin to smooth over the thorns of his anxiety.</p><p>“There,” the bell keeper murmurs. Wood Man probably wouldn’t have heard it, but he’s concentrating so deeply on the atmosphere of the room that he could probably hear a mouse in the cupboards right now.</p><p>Wood Man turns his head to see the bell keeper in his periphery. The man is lifting the map from the table, and he carries it to the wall to the left of the wood stove where he flattens the tape at its corners back onto the wood paneling. He steps back and inspects his work, looking pleased.</p><p>Wood Man takes his first look at the bell keeper’s work all evening, and sees that it is not just a map, but a weather map. Curved lines sprawl between the opposite corners, cold fronts and warm fronts—circles indicating some kind of points of interest, and several adorable illustrations of woffs. Its purpose is unmistakable.</p><p>Woffologists consider the woff migration patterns to be one of the world’s greatest mysteries, but the bell keeper of Trolberg is out here cracking it on his downtime.</p><p>Unbelievable, Wood Man thinks, and when he returns his attention to the bell keeper himself, Wood Man finds the man’s eyes on him.</p><p>“What’s on your mind?” Wood Man asks casually, as if he is not desperate for the distraction.</p><p>The bell keeper looks momentarily startled, like he didn’t realize Wood Man was paying attention to him. Or maybe he thought Wood Man was asleep. Wood Man crosses one leg over the other and props himself up on his elbows, so he is at least looking at the man. He's been told this reduces the uncanny discomfort people experience when speaking with him.</p><p>Not by much, though.</p><p>The bell keeper rubs his chin. “Well… I'll admit I was expecting a bit more ado about not giving you my name," says the bell keeper, "after you roundly scolded me for my bad manners the other day."</p><p>Wood Man considers this. He has to take a moment to recall the exact exchange the bell keeper is referring to, before he says, "Calling a guy a 'what' <em> is </em>bad manners. But your name? That's your business." Wood Man lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. "If you don't want to tell me, then I don't need to know. I'm not a busybody.”</p><p>"You don't seem like one," the bell keeper agrees. "Don't seem like you tolerate those types much, either."</p><p>Wood Man bolts upright with enthusiasm at being so well understood. "Right! It's like, why are you being so nosy? I don't come around for the conversation—" and Wood Man suddenly realizes how rude that sounds, and he wouldn't normally care, but for the first time he realizes it's <em>untrue.</em> At least in this case. And he's suddenly anxious about giving the bell keeper the impression he doesn't want to talk to him.</p><p>Because then, well.</p><p>He might stop.</p><p>"That is," Wood Man hastily amends, looking away so he can’t see if his thoughtless words have put a hurt expression on the bell keeper’s face, "anywhere but here."</p><p>Only then does Wood Man risk a glance at the man—but he doesn’t look put out by Wood Man inadvertently implying that their conversations are some kind of joyless obligation. Rather, he looks faintly amused by Wood Man’s backpedaling.</p><p>"You come here for the conversation?" the bell keeper asks coyly.</p><p>"... Repeating myself makes me anxious," Wood Man grumbles, and he drinks his tea so he won't put his foot in his mouth again. Or he tries to—instead he lifts an empty cup to his face, and feels rather foolish.</p><p>"Hm. I'll keep that in mind," the bell keeper promises mysteriously. Then, voice brightening, he says, “I’m getting more tea. Do you want some?”</p><p>“Please,” says Wood Man.</p><p>—</p><p>“Do you eat?”</p><p>Wood Man turns his head on his makeshift pillow to see the bell keeper where he stands by the electric stove, smiling crookedly at Wood Man laying on his floor. “What a rude question,” says Wood Man.</p><p>The bell keeper’s smile turns exasperated, though it doesn’t diminish at all. “Is it still rude if I’m offering to feed you something?”</p><p>Wood Man quickly changes tack. “I’ll have whatever you’re having,” he says agreeably.</p><p>The bell keeper’s rough laughter floats over to where Wood Man lays by the stove, settling somewhere in his chest along with the hushed whisper of the fire and the tinny murmur of the radio.</p><p>What they're having is cucumber sandwiches. Which is fine, if you like bland and soggy. Which Wood Man does, as it happens. There’s nothing blander than twigs or soggier than mud, after all, and as nice as the bell keeper’s properly brewed tea is, soily water and twigs is still Wood Man’s favorite.</p><p>It seems they haven’t an ounce of good taste between the two of them. But that’s almost endearing, Wood Man thinks as he sits at the dining table like a civilized person, and inhales his morsel of soggy blandness like an uncivilized one. The bell keeper pauses with his food halfway to his mouth at the sight. Wood Man sips his new cup of tea, unperturbed, and the bell keeper realizes he’s staring and looks away.</p><p>For all that Wood Man enjoys the social tension of holding everyone else to a higher standard of courtesy than he holds himself, he can’t say he minds the bell keeper staring. His warm regard and gentle curiosity are the furthest thing from <em> intrusive </em> that Wood Man can possibly imagine.</p><p>"Say, Bell Keeper," Wood Man says.</p><p>The bell keeper's cherry heartwood eyes return to Wood Man, which feels like a prize he hasn't quite earned. The man has food in his mouth, so he simply says "Hm," in encouragement for Wood Man to continue.</p><p>"Could I borrow this book? For a little longer, I mean." He gestures to the pale blue book sitting at his elbow on the table.</p><p>The bell keeper swallows and dusts crumbs from his beard. He frowns thoughtfully. "Depends. Are you planning on bringing it back?"</p><p>Wood Man folds his hands on the dining table. "You wound me with these insinuations," he says, and does not answer the question.</p><p>The bell keeper shakes his head in strangely fond exasperation and sips his tea. "Then no, I won't loan it out," the bell keeper says. "But I'll leave it here on the table, and you can come read it any time you like."</p><p>This is inconvenient. If Wood Man is going to commit to the existential crisis this book promises, he'd greatly prefer to take that plunge in the privacy of his own home. Not in the bell keeper’s cabin, where the man might walk in at any moment.</p><p>"Or," the bell keeper continues, tilting his chin up and smiling with his heartwood eyes full of mischief, "you could play me for it, I suppose."</p><p>Wood Man leans forward with interest. "Go on," he invites.</p><p>The bell keeper deflates slightly. "Well, I'll have to find those damn cards first…"</p><p>Wood Man leans back in his seat, bringing his tea with him to warm his hands. "And if you win?"</p><p>The bell keeper drags a hand over his mouth. "Let's see… Three questions, answered truthfully," he suggests. "Or if you bring something else of interest, I might agree to play for the item in question."</p><p>Part with one of his prized possessions, or check his mystique at the door? The bell keeper drives a hard bargain. "I'll think about it," Wood Man says. He really wants to get through this book in private.</p><p>"Then I'll start looking for those cards tomorrow. And next time you visit, feel free to bring any offers you want to make."</p><p>"Sure," says Wood Man, already planning his approach as they subside into comfortable silence.</p><p>The bell keeper clearly likes books, and Wood Man has a fine collection. He's not eager to part with them, but for a chance to get his hands on <em> this </em>gem, he might be persuaded to stake a game or two of cards on them.</p><p>It's that or suffer the experience of sincere conversational transparency, and Wood Man likes the idea of that even less.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>anyway <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1CAUf4mQX4F7ePLb6fm7xP?si=xUbTCE8MQC2gOp61PHemPw">i made a woodbell playlist</a> bc im irrepressibly powerful</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. a whole other kettle of fish</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Card shark,” the bell keeper accuses, dropping his cards and sliding the book across the dining table.</p><p>“Never claimed I wasn’t good,” Wood Man demurs. He tosses the bell keeper’s orange scarf over his shoulder in boastful affectation. “You just didn’t ask.” He pulls the book into his lap and strokes his knotted knuckles across the moth-eaten cover, smug and proprietary. He's definitely rebinding this.</p><p>“So I didn’t,” the bell keeper agrees flatly, but his exasperation is surface level only. Beneath that he’s undeniably amused. Playful. Fond.</p><p>“You’re welcome to try and win it back,” Wood Man taunts hopefully.</p><p>The bell keeper slaps his hands on the table and stands abruptly, as if he must act quickly to remove temptation. “No, no, that won’t be necessary. You earned it, Wood Man.” He gestures with an open palm toward his opponent, ceding victory with a wry smile. He’s a very graceful loser, Wood Man thinks. “Besides—now you’ve tipped your hand, I suspect you’re a bit out of my league.”</p><p>“You didn’t do so bad,” Wood Man consoles.</p><p>The bell keeper snorts as he goes about making them more tea. “Are you trying to salvage my pride so I’ll let you keep swindling me out of my books?”</p><p>“That depends,” says Wood Man. “Is it working?”</p><p>Laughing in disbelief, the bell keeper shakes his head and says, “You’re such a cheeky cunt, Wood Man.”</p><p>Wood Man laughs in disbelief himself. These are the sorts of things you miss out on, he thinks, when your best friend is an eleven year-old. He rests his elbow on the table and places his head in his hand (he’s sitting on the books he brought as collateral to make this maneuver possible, despite his height). “Anyone ever tell you you’ve got a sailor’s tongue, Bell Keeper?”</p><p>While the kettle goes, the bell keeper returns to the table to retrieve their empty plastic mugs. Wood Man looks up at him to see a dark brow lift in charmed amusement. “I should hope so,” the bell keeper says. “Considering I was a sailor.”</p><p>And the bell keeper turns away with the mugs in his hand, leaving Wood Man alone with that earth-shaking revelation. Wood Man straightens, wants to ask more—but it’s not in his nature to pry about things like that. So instead he simply hums and says, “Oh, that explains it," and watches with satisfaction as the bell keeper’s shoulders twitch upward, bespeaking another soft laugh. The bell keeper is remarkably generous with those.</p><p>It’s a little intoxicating, if Wood Man is honest.</p><p>But for some reason he still wants more—wants to <em> know </em> more. Wants to know about the bell keeper’s sailing career, and why he’s not doing it any more. Wants to know what made him move to the complete opposite side of the city from the harbour, after it was over. Wood Man’s quip effectively cut the conversational thread, and he taps his cheek as he mulls over how best to tie it back together—but without asking any probing questions that he himself wouldn’t appreciate.</p><p>“Never been sailing, myself,” Wood Man eventually settles on. It has the benefit of being true, and also not being a question.</p><p>Nailed it.</p><p>The bell keeper has finished the washing by the time Wood Man speaks, and the man turns to lean against the countertop, raising a curious brow at Wood Man as he absently dries the mugs. “No?” he says. “S’pose I’d think it stranger if you had, truth be told. Not sure you'd like it."</p><p>"And why's that?" Wood Man asks patiently. And maybe that's the ticket—make the questions about Wood Man, and then the bell keeper will only volunteer information he wants to share.</p><p>The bell keeper lifts his eyes skyward. His drying hand slows in thought. "You don't like the rain," he ventures.</p><p>"No," Wood Man agrees. "But I like fishing."</p><p>The bell keeper's eyebrows disappear into his hairline. <em> "Do </em> you?"</p><p>"Sure," says Wood Man. "There's a lake in the Great Forest. I go ice fishing there in the winter.”</p><p>“What do you need fish for?” the bell keeper demands, and his voice wavers with lighthearted mockery when he ventures the guess, <em> “Fertilizer?” </em></p><p>“Clever,” Wood Man says, dry as kindling. “Elves pay top dollar for fresh fish, you know. It’s a big hassle for them to catch their own. And most spirits are too beholden to tradition to be caught dead in a human market.”</p><p>The bell keeper hums. “Not you, though,” he says knowingly.</p><p>Wood Man sighs as if his tolerance of human society is a terrible cross to bear. “Unfortunately, books don’t grow on trees.”</p><p>The bell keeper lifts his eyebrows and purses his smiling lips, but ultimately does <em> not </em> voice the insufferably pedantic rejoinder of, “Technically books <em> do </em> grow on trees,” though it is painfully and regretfully obvious that he is thinking it. “Well, that all being the case, I suppose you might like sailing after all,” he decides, “since you’re such a free spirit—and there’s nothing quite as freeing as turning your stern to harbor and setting out on the wind and waves, in my personal opinion.”</p><p>The wistful admiration in the bell keeper’s tone conveys a bone-deep longing that takes Wood Man’s breath away. The bell keeper’s description is humble, but it invokes a depth of feeling that Wood Man wouldn’t find misplaced between the pages of a poetry anthology. It’s like he can hear the waves, smell the salt and the fibrous rigging ropes, feel the spray of the sea.</p><p>Just as Wood Man’s spirit invokes the wilderness and the woodstove by turns, Wood Man realizes that within the bell keeper’s soul resides a roaring ocean—like an unassuming seashell which sits upon the mantle, which whispers with the distant sound of crashing waves, if one only thinks to lift it to his ear.</p><p>This revelation only raises <em> more </em>questions as to why the bell keeper is out here keeping bells, instead of cruising around the harbor in a sailboat like every fibre of his being is clearly desperately aching to do.</p><p>Wood Man feels, perhaps fittingly, cast adrift by the depth and breadth of the bell keeper’s nostalgia for the sea. Wood Man has made his own acquaintance with nostalgia, recently, and it is surreal to see it reflected back at him. He wonders if it is only his recent acquaintanceship with the feeling which has permitted him to recognize it in the bell keeper.</p><p>All at once, Wood Man realizes that just as the bell keeper’s longing is a tantalizing mystery, it would be unutterably cruel to pursue the truth of it any further.</p><p>Wood Man's own nostalgia is a deep, rail splitting agony. Which seems an excessive consequence to inflict on the bell keeper, just to satisfy Wood Man's curiosity.</p><p>So he drops it.</p><p>His moment of preternatural insight has evidently passed by the bell keeper unnoticed, because the man acts like nothing is amiss when he returns to the dining table with more tea. Wood Man supposes he <em> has </em>set a precedent for doing unusual things to the flow of a conversation, like frequently subsiding unprompted into pensive silence. And, Wood Man reasons, the bell keeper has no cause to suspect that Wood Man has inadvertently glimpsed his heart through the window of his words.</p><p>Wood Man's characteristic sangfroid prevents him from responding in any way that would betray his newfound intuition.</p><p>He hopes this doesn't become, like, a regular thing for him. He has enough existential crises on his plate, now that he's liberated the bell keeper of his book on nature spirits.</p><p>As the bell keeper gathers up the cards from their game, Wood Man reaches for the tea the man has placed at his elbow. It's not the translucent, oily black brew which Wood Man has grown accustomed to receiving from the bell keeper (and occasionally brewing himself), and he holds the mug in both hands and peers into it for a closer look.</p><p>It's a soft, swirling brown, like eddies of sand in a tidepool.</p><p>It's the color of his bark.</p><p>The bell keeper is watching Wood Man in that unconvincingly surreptitious manner of his, the same one he has whenever he's waiting for Wood Man's opinion about something new: food, conversation, literature.</p><p>Wood Man lifts the mug slowly to his face. The faintly astringent scent of the black tea is subdued, softened and rounded out and slightly sweetened by whatever the bell keeper has added to it. Optimistic, Wood Man tilts his head back and takes a drink.</p><p>It is not something he is entirely prepared for.</p><p>It's <em> sweet, </em>and rich, and just a little creamy. Milk and sugar, Wood Man realizes belatedly, and the delightful taste wrenches a sound of sensual pleasure from a place deep in Wood Man's chest he hadn't known existed—a pleasantly surprised, drawn-out hum, underlaid with the sound of a creaking tree branch, like he's expanding with atmospheric warmth. </p><p>The bell keeper stares.</p><p>"This is delicious," Wood Man says in a slow, languorous rumble. It's a shame not to savor such a delicacy, but he can't get enough. Wood Man gulps the tea down like he's trying to put out a fire in his stomach. A shiver passes through him, sunlight and a warm breeze through the boughs of a tree. He puts his mug down, emptied, and sighs, producing a faint wisp of steam from his mouth.</p><p>The bell keeper is still staring. Wood Man <em>has</em> been rather lukewarm on the subject of tea, so he can hardly blame the man for being taken aback by this new, preferential enthusiasm.</p><p>Nor can the bell keeper blame Wood Man for taking advantage, Wood Man decides resolutely.</p><p>Wood Man reaches for the bell keeper’s cup while the man is distracted.</p><p>The bell keeper lifts his mug out of reach with an outraged laugh, knocking aside the cards with the motion and sending them scattering across the table and fluttering to the floor. It must be very amusing indeed, Wood Man thinks, because the bell keeper's ears are pink. "You—" the bell keeper bursts out in stunned disbelief between bouts of laughter as he bats away the Wood Man's thieving hands, "greedy, covetous little gadfly—!"</p><p>Judging the bell keeper too alert now to be divested of his drink, Wood Man settles back in his seat. "It's good tea," he explains, feeling justified.</p><p>"Aye, I was on the fence before, but I appreciate you taking the time to spell out your opinion on the matter," the bell keeper says, trembling with strangled laughter.</p><p>"You're welcome," Wood Man says warmly, still thrumming with sensual delight.</p><p>When the bell keeper seems to have mastered his amusement, he says, "I suppose you'll be wanting—"</p><p>"Yes, please," Wood Man interrupts with an eager purr.</p><p>The bell keeper chokes—or laughs—and scrubs his mouth with a hand, ostensibly to stifle any further such sounds. "Right," the bell keeper says faintly. He stands again—snatching his mug out of reach when Wood Man's head turns toward it in undisguised yearning—and says, "Pick up the cards, then, would you?"</p><p>Wood Man needs something to do with his hands, because there is not currently a mug of warm tea in them, and fussing with the bell keeper's playing cards is just as good a distraction as any. He hops down from his throne of books to pick up the frayed-edge cards, and when he's gathered them all he climbs back in his seat. He rests his ankle across his thigh, pleased and insouciant, and shows off a few flashy shuffling tricks when he catches the bell keeper looking—just to rub his poker supremacy in the bell keeper's face, a little.</p><p>The bell keeper grimaces. "What am I going to do with you?”</p><p>"Hmm," says Wood Man. “Make me tea?”</p><p>The bell keeper scrubs his eyes as his shoulders loosen with resigned humor, an irrepressible smile pressing at the corners of his mouth as he says, “Aye, I am at that.”</p><p>—</p><p>“So what next?” Wood Man asks. The bell keeper’s compromise to Wood Man’s newly unslakable thirst is to simply give him the whole kettle, since the sturdy white plastic mugs are the only ones the bell keeper has. Well—he says he has a thermos, but he must have left it behind during his rounds of the city’s bell towers, because it’s not anywhere in the house. Wood Man proposes, “Crazy Eights? Slap Jack? Kings in the Corner? Go Fish?”</p><p>“No more bloody card games,” the man grumbles, and he removes the deck from the table and puts it in his pocket, as if not seeing it will make Wood Man forget it’s there. He’s obviously not mad, but he’s firm on this point.</p><p>Wood Man acknowledges that he is quickly becoming a much more high maintenance house guest than he usually is. He doesn’t need the bell keeper to entertain him, he reasons.</p><p>But Wood Man can’t stop himself from needling the man.</p><p>“I’d be scared too, if I lost that badly.”</p><p>The bell keeper gives Wood Man an arch look. “I’m not entirely convinced you haven’t got some—fey, nature spirit, felicity magic easing the way, you know. And I’d be a damned fool to play you again if you’re bound to win—particularly if it’s just to soothe my <em> pride.” </em> He says the word <em> pride </em> like those individuals most susceptible to provocation in defense of their pride are very, very tiresome. Wood Man agrees.</p><p>He would just like the bell keeper to rise a little more quickly to such provocations, for his own convenience.</p><p>“I take exception to the implication that I would use magic to win a card game,” Wood Man demurs.</p><p>“So you’re counting cards,” the bell keeper decides.</p><p>“Counting cards is allowed in poker,” Wood Man says evasively. “It’s not like we were playing Blackjack.”</p><p>The bell keeper props his chin on his palm and splays his fingers across the side of his face. “I oughta keelhaul you,” he mutters insincerely.</p><p>“You’ll have to take me sailing first,” Wood Man reasons.</p><p>The bell keeper snorts. “Am I your only sailor friend, Wood Man? Ah, and me without my boating license,” he laments.</p><p>“For shame,” Wood Man agrees. He sighs airily. “And I was so looking forward to it.”</p><p>The bell keeper fixes Wood Man with a doubtful smile, huffing in soft amusement. “If you do <em> actually </em>want to go sailing, you ought to ask around the harbour. Polite fellow like you? I expect you’ll wrangle up a crew in no time.”</p><p>“Funny,” says Wood Man, lifting the kettle to drink precipitously from its spout. “I’m not exactly known for my social graces.”</p><p>“No, but you’re probably enough of a bastard to endear yourself to them anyway.”</p><p>There isn’t a good word for the metaphysical logistics of it, but Wood Man chokes on his tea. The bell keeper lifts a hand in bewildered concern, like he’s not sure how to assist when Wood Man doesn’t have an esophagus. Wood Man is just as much at a loss as the bell keeper, since he’s not even sure how it happened. But Wood Man senses he’s recovering, so he waves off the bell keeper’s concern.</p><p>“Rude,” he says with a cough. “Maybe you could write me an introduction letter. Put you down as a reference, and when they ring you up you can tell them I <em> definitely </em>don’t cheat at cards.”</p><p>“I’m not going to throw dust in their eyes on your behalf,” the bell keeper scolds. But he looks thoughtful, and says, “Might have something you can use to break the ice, though...”</p><p>“Oh?” Wood Man says. The bell keeper stands and makes his way to the door, searching first the floating shelves and then the hall tree and then the chest by the door.</p><p>“Ah, of course they’re in the sea chest,” the bell keeper murmurs.</p><p>He returns to the dining table, and on its surface he drops his prize: two white dice and four red ones, with images on their faces instead of pips. Wood Man leans forward and makes a sound of interest. “And what are these?”</p><p>The bell keeper smiles and pulls up a chair. “I’m guessing you’ve never played Sea Bones,” he says.</p><p>“I haven’t,” Wood Man admits. A dice game? Wood Man’s more of a cards man, but he’s always interested in learning new ways to convince people he isn’t stealing their stuff.</p><p>The bell keeper smiles, picking up one of the dice and rolling it between his thumb and his fingers thoughtfully. “I’ll teach you, then.”</p><p>—</p><p>When Wood Man arrives home later that evening, it is with a heavy bindle. He ended up leaving one of the books he'd brought as collateral behind, informing the bell keeper he would be gracious enough to let the man borrow it in the interest of lightening his load for the trip home. The bell keeper had agreed to hold onto the book, but he’d looked distinctly amused, like Wood Man had failed to convince him that they <em> weren’t </em> starting a naturalist/historical/spiritual studies book club.</p><p>If that’s what the man thinks, then the joke’s on him, because Wood Man is keeping the book he won tonight.</p><p>... Unless, Wood Man reflects, its contents are so disturbing that he feels compelled to put physical distance between himself and the revelations therein.</p><p>And that possibility isn’t entirely beyond the pale, considering what it managed to do to his head before he even finished reading the foreword.</p><p>But he’s not thinking about that. He’s preoccupied with something <em> much </em>more interesting.</p><p>Namely, the bell keeper.</p><p>Wood Man has spent a lot of time in the company of others, ignoring their judgmental looks and hoping for silence. He doesn’t strictly speaking <em> like </em> people, but there is something about lived-in spaces, peopled spaces, that calls to him and nourishes him. People <em> themselves </em> have always been a means to that end. But the bell keeper is the first person whose company Wood Man has enjoyed without reservation. The man is hospitable and friendly—but not <em> too </em> friendly, Wood Man thinks, and thinks of Hilda. Don’t get him wrong, she’s a great kid. But she’s damn nosy.</p><p>Not like the bell keeper, Wood Man thinks dreamily, and thinks of how similarly sedentary they are, and how the man’s soul is a great, vast, calm sea—unless he is experiencing an uncharacteristically doleful mood, in which case the sea inside him is more like a storm.</p><p>But even a storm can provide soothing noise, a contrast, when one has a blazing hearth to warm himself by.</p><p>Wood Man settles in at the island countertop which separates his kitchen from his dining room. From his bindle, Wood Man retrieves his new book—and one other thing.</p><p>The bell keeper had given Wood Man his Sea Bones dice.</p><p>Wood Man examines the wood-hewn and hand-painted dice, paint worn away where the edges have smoothed off at the corners. The images are charming: skulls, crossed bones, a wide cutlass, and the silhouette of a snarling dragon head. The bell keeper’s reasoning had been that people don’t buy or sell Sea Bones dice, so Wood Man wouldn’t be able to acquire his own under ordinary circumstances.</p><p>It is traditional, the bell keeper had told Wood Man, to receive them as gifts. And seeing as Wood Man wouldn’t be able to play without a set of his own, and the bell keeper no longer visits the harbour, it seemed fitting for him to gift them to Wood Man.</p><p>Wood Man wonders who gave the bell keeper this set of dice, and he wonders why the bell keeper doesn’t even <em> visit </em> the harbour any more. He spoke fondly of the sailors in Trolberg; surely he still has old sailing friends?</p><p>The urge to ask had ached in Wood Man’s pith like a smoldering coal, but he withstood the impulse. Maybe he’s torturing himself for no reason, and he ought to just come right out and ask. The worst the man can do is refuse to answer. But Wood Man knows full well that he’s as comfortable with the bell keeper as he is because the man has never pressed or pried about Wood Man’s own mysteries. He’s only ever accepted Wood Man at face value—so to speak.</p><p>Wood Man’s not sure what ‘face value’ comes out to when you have a face that looks like a pareidolia of knotholes.</p><p>And, Wood Man thinks, his preternatural insight probably hadn’t shown him that glimpse of the bell keeper’s nostalgia for nothing. Sure, Wood Man has never been able to do anything like that before, so it <em> could </em>just be random chance, that it developed in that moment to show Wood Man what was already right in front of him. But Wood Man is trusting his instincts here, and right now they’re telling him that the bell keeper will tell Wood Man in his own time.</p><p>Wood Man ignores the book at his elbow to fiddle with the dice, rolling them thoughtfully in his hands. <em> Cutlass, crossbones, skull, crossbones, dragon... </em></p><p>And he looks out across the dining room and muses, “I should redecorate in here. Maybe a nautical theme.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>GOD these two are so fucking married, i love them</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><a href="https://fruitytrollroll.tumblr.com/post/641036728747081728/and-just-how-did-you-get-in-here-wood-man">also here is the promo post for the fic</a> on tunmblr</p></blockquote></div></div>
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